Tobias Carroll writes fiction and nonfiction. He's the managing editor of Vol.1 Brooklyn, and his work has recently appeared in Tin House, Midnight Breakfast, The Collapsar, The Collagist, Joyland, Necessary Fiction, and Underwater New York. His collection TRANSITORY will be released by Civil Coping Mechanisms in 2016.
I’ve had some stories appear in both their print and online spaces, and they also appear here; there’s also work from smart folks like Joe Meno, Patrick Somerville, Al Burian, Anne Elizabeth Moore, Jonathan Messinger, Susannah Felts, Jamie Iredell, Kate Duva, and more.
(As always, giant thanks are due to editors Todd Dills and C.T. Ballentine, who are fine people to boot.)
If you’re so inclined, you can purchase the book here.
Most mornings, I stop in to Long Island City’s Sweetleaf before work for a cup of coffee and a scone. Sweetleaf does a fine job of baking scones that achieve a good sweet/savory balance; this weekend, I decided to give something similar a shot.
To make these, I followed the basic scone recipe from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything. I added a tablespoon of chipotle pepper, half a cup of sliced almonds, about a cup of queso fresco, and a teaspoon and change of Mexican vanilla. The result was lighter than expected and just spicy enough, with the cheese fairly blended in but still tempering the chipotle.
Last week, I contributed an essay to the excellent “Write Place, Write Time” series of, well, short essays about where writers do their thing.
I’m going to need to sketch out a shared history for the three primary main characters — including former bandmates, families, classmates — as well as a small town near the Pennsylvania border in northwestern New Jersey. I keep a Moleskin notebook around, but more recently I picked up a half-dozen Field Notes notebooks so that I could keep things project-specific.
I’ll be making my way to Western Pennsylvania tomorrow, boarding a bus at 6:50 in the morning, reading material in tow, bound for Pittsburgh (and elsewhere). Returning to New York come Monday night, hopefully with many a story to tell.
The fine people at Storychord have published my short story “Winter Montage, Hoboken Station.” You can read it here.
Here’s a short excerpt:
Transit always reminds me of transit. The light rail that runs along the Hudson calls back every trip I’ve ever taken to the Twin Cities — if the cars used on each line aren’t the same make, they have to be siblings or kissing cousins or flat-out doppelgängers. Minneapolis makes me think of winter, makes me think of long walks through the same snowbanks that petrify my clients out here. I spent four years there, punctuated by repetition: every six to eight weeks, I would take the light rail from riverside neighborhoods to the airport, would step out into the airport’s cavernous station, and would take flight. I almost always returned at night, and sitting at that station, half a dozen standing in random concentrations along the platform, might as well have been heraldry for that time in my life.
More on how this story came to be will appear in this space before long.
On the one hand, The Avian Gospels meets many of the criteria of dystopian science fiction: an ambiguous and shattered city, ruled by a dictator; the involvement of the paranormal – here, the ability of a father and son to psychically control the flocks of birds that have gathered around said city. (At times, The Avian Gospels would make an interesting double bill with Patrick Ness’s Chaos Walking books.) At the same time, Novy sprinkles references throughout the novel that suggest a more self-aware level beyond the revolutions, denunciations, and abuses on display. There are specific references to the unlikely trifecta of James Ellroy, William Faulkner, and Oulipo; more generally, some of Novy’s use of specific words seems intentionally disjointed, recalling the rewritten syntax of Ben Marcus’s The Age of Wire and String.
A while ago, I took part in a day-long at-home writing session to benefit Dzanc Books. The story that began its life then — a riff on Brooklyn winters, isolation, and the notion of “fake jazz” — ended up becoming something called “An Apolitical Song.” And now the fine people at Metazen have chosen to publish it. Here’s an excerpt:
My current state: false starts and lyrics sitting half-written in notebooks. Seated at a table looking at fresh-made coffee. Watching steam ascend into late-morning light and thinking it looks like nothing more than smoke rising from a newly kindled fire. All I want to do is collapse around the phrase fake jazz, half-obsessed after a late-night remembrance of a long-ago late-night ramble about John Lurie. Thinking: I’m going to call this my fake fake jazz band, thinking that might blow minds, thinking that’ll leave holes in the world and realign things, wanting to see how people react, wanting to hear them run the combinations through their heads, wanting to see what their eyes do when they think. My fake fake jazz band.
So: I spent my Sunday afternoon at the Astor Center, taking a class as part of the Manhattan Cocktail Classic. This was my first time attending, and I didn’t entirely know what to expect: would it simply be an overview of cocktail-related lore, or something more hands-on?
The event I attended was — as the photograph above suggests — a look at assorted bars and clubs across nearly seventy years of film. Nora Maynard covered a series of films, ranging from Laura to Almost Famous, with four cocktails to be consumed over the course of the afternoon. (Two came pre-made; two were assembled in the space.) It was a very enjoyable way to spend ninety minutes, and it reminded me that I really, really need to watch Hannah and Her Sisters.
After the course, we headed into the main space, in which assorted spirits companies had bars set up at which cocktails could be made. It was there that I tried the drink pictured below, made with vodka, grapefruit and lemon juice, and topped with freshly-ground salt and pepper. Which was not something I’d have previously thought to put into a drink, but which worked remarkably well.
Prompted by a late-night viewing of my friend Dan’s copy of Live at Pompeii, I’ve been wanting to delve back into Pink Floyd’s discography. They were one of the first bands I was obsessive about listening to, and I’m still fondest of the weirder corners of their body of work. (Seriously: ask me about my Atom Heart Mother theory at a party sometime. Also, I may have once tried to write a novel using Animals as a structural inspiration.)
Much like another much-loved band whose work I began listening to in the early 90s (in this case, Fugazi), the mastering jobs on the albums I picked up when I was in high school haven’t aged particularly well. Just the other day, I was wondering whether their discography had gotten the remastering treatment as so many other bands’ had (such as, say, Fugazi), and came across this bit of news on Pitchfork:
Art rock mega-titans Pink Floyd and EMI have announced an extensive reissue campaign covering the band’s catalogue. The series of releases will include “CDs, DVDs, Blu-ray discs, SACD, an array of digital formats, viral marketing, iPhone Apps, and a brand-new single-album ‘Best Of’ collection,” according to a press release.
Cleverly titled Why Pink Floyd…?, the reissue series is set to kick off on September 26, when the label will release all 14 of Pink Floyd’s studio albums in “Discovery” CD editions, digitally, and as a box set with an accompanying book of photos.
That sounds promising. In related news, I predict that I will be spending a lot of money on reissues come September 26th.
There isn’t much I can add to this. I will say, though, that I spent the last few days reading the anthology, and this excerpt from a piece on the Velvet Underground won’t stop rattling around my head:
For the Velvets the roots of sin are in this ingrained resistance to facing our deepest, most painful, and most sacred emotions; the essence of grace is the comprehension that our sophistication is a sham, that our deepest, most painful, most sacred desire is to rediscover a childlike innocence that we have never, in our heart of hearts, really lost.
Last month, I joined WORD’s classics book group. This month, we’re discussing the first half of Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls. Until now, it had fallen into the strange category of classics looming unread on my shelf — alongside Ulysses until a few months ago. Looking at the book itself, its densely written paragraphs, and its age (over a century and a half), I assumed I was in store for something…almost archaic.
I was very wrong. Consider the narrator’s tone here, somewhere between omniscient and mildly frustrated with the characters around him:
As the conversation that the wayfarers conducted with each other is of no great interest for the reader, we shall do better if we tell something about Nozdryov himself, who will perhaps have occasion to play by no means the last role in our poem.
Or this passage, from five pages in, describing a piece of, er, unconventional decor in a common room:
…the same oil paintings all over the wall — in short, the same as everywhere; with the only difference that one painting portrayed a nymph with such enormous breasts as the reader has probably never seen.
Not being a reader of the original Russian text, I’m not sure if the tone here comes more from Gogol or from Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky’s translation. But either way, it was a sign from the outset that I was certainly not in the company of a museum piece, and that the narration was as alive as that of any recent novel I might encounter.